


Warden's Oath

by jillyfae



Series: together we are stronger than the one [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Grey Wardens, Guilt, Introspection, Loghain Mac Tir - Freeform, Present Tense, Redemption is a Work In Progress, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:41:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8274841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: Of all the mistakes he's made in his life, all the promises he's let slide, this is the one vow he'll try to keep. (Even if it isn't really his.)





	

_In Peace, Vigilance._

// 

He likes the sunrise. 

Has his whole life, though there was a decade or two he was generally too hung over or too tangled up in the latest young thing's blankets to bother dragging himself up to look at it. 

He especially likes it here in the Hinterlands. It's peaceful. 

The world could use more peace. 

Liddy had always liked the dark ones, red and purple streaks through air thick with moisture, the taste of a coming storm heavy on their tongues; had laughed at the thought of it, winds and lightning and thunder. 

Liddy had always wanted an adventure. 

She would have handled one a fucking tonne better than he had. 

If she'd had the chance. 

The sunrise today is pale, the sky white instead of blue, no clouds to catch on fire, just the barest steady increase in visibility, breath by breath. 

Just enough, now, that it would be easy to see the shape of the woman sharing watch with him, if he turns to look across the camp. 

He does, he's not sure why, and it takes more than a breath to find her, takes longer than he'd expected to separate her from the thin tall shadows striping through the camp, the black weight of trunks surrounding them. She's leaning against a tree, completely a part of her surroundings, still and soft and steady, her head tilted back as if she's staring at the same sky, as if she's watching the same light grow, breath by breath. 

It's a sight almost sweet enough to be hopeful, to lift a little of the weight off his shoulders, to soften the shadows in his heart, in his dreams. 

Almost. 

// 

_In War, Victory._

// 

It's hard to stand up straight, the weight across his shoulders too heavy by far, and he leans against cool damp rock, pretending to a calm he cannot feel. 

Has, perhaps, never felt, despite the years of practice. Of trying. 

Of failing. 

This is the night he fails completely. He knows. He can feel it, pulling down his very bones. It's only the one night, this camp, this company, just one night before _the Wardens_... before Hawke and Loghain head west, to begin their scouting trip. 

But one night is enough. Too much. 

Too many lies, they cannot stand, they will fall, and take him with them. He can only hope they do not hurt _her_ too much along the way. 

He deserves to be revealed, deserves everything that happens, will happen, but still. 

_Not yet_ , he cannot help but pray, over and over, barely words at all, an echo of his heartbeat. 

Let him help, first, somehow. Let him be worthy of her faith in him, let him do some good. 

It won't be enough, nothing will ever be enough, but if he can be the guard at her back, just a little longer, maybe it won't have been a waste. 

_I cannot regret a life that led me to her._

But of course he can. Every breath. Until this one. 

And then it passes, and he regrets even that, because he is lying to her, and every moment of his life is as unforgivable as the last. 

More unforgivable, because every moment he has a chance to make amends, to tell her the truth, and he doesn't. 

And now Loghain is walking towards him, and it is too late. 

It was too late the moment he met her. She'd just watched him yell, apparently unworried as he charged closer. Then he'd lifted his shield to block an arrow, and she stepped in, accepting his protection, suddenly close enough he could see the shift of green in her eyes, the hint of brown hiding behind it, and he felt the first soft stirrings of curiosity he'd allowed himself in years. 

It was only later he'd noticed her sliding the knife back into her belt, and he'd realized she hadn't been unconcerned, just prepared. 

He thought he was prepared, as well, but when Warden Mac Tir leans against the stone wall beside him, he realizes he is not. Could never be. 

"I met Commander Blackwall once." 

Blackwall's eyes close, and it aches, how in his own head he still lies to himself, because even now, with a _real_ Warden's voice beside him, he cannot bear to think of himself as Rainier. 

"Did you kill him?" 

"No!" Blackwall's voice cracks too loudly through the cave they're using for a camp, and he sees the shift of the echo through the people around them, until _she_ turns, and looks, and all he can do is close his mouth, and shake his head, and her eyebrows lift, but her face softens in the way it does when she's considering a smile, and she turns away. 

She trusts his secrets. 

Dying would be less painful. 

"No," Blackwall repeats softly, opening his eyes, making himself turn to face the truth to his lie, standing quietly beside him. "Darkspawn ambush." 

A single eyebrow lifts, a soft grunt, dark and doubtful. 

"He sent me to get some blood, and there were more, waiting." Blackwall stands straighter, leaves the rock behind to balance on the balls of his feet, and he feels his voice go too thin, affronted, somehow, to be doubted, despite all his lies, now that he is telling the truth. 

"Hmmm," Loghain hums, but it seems to be a considering sort of noise, this time, and Blackwall makes himself breathe. Tries to wait, but can't. 

"Why haven't you said anything?" 

The side of Loghain's mouth lifts. It is not a smile. "Some things can never be taken back, once they're said aloud." 

There's a twist in Blackwall's chest, relief and disappointment, tangled and bitter. "Even the truth?" 

"Especially the truth." Loghain sighs, and it is as heavy as anything Blackwall has ever felt. "I know a thing or two about the way the past lingers. The way regrets haunt. And you -" He pauses. 

Blackwall swallows. 

"You are doing what the Wardens should do, what they _need_ to do, but are not doing. Will not. Cannot." 

"But I'm not -" 

"It doesn't matter who you are. Or were." Loghain snorts. "Isn't that the whole point of this charade? A Warden could be anyone. It's the _job_ that matters. Do the job, _Blackwall,_ " Loghain nods his head, the very-Ferelden-style braids that frame his face shifting against his shoulders, "and you'll be fine. Or as fine as any of us are." 

"Of course. Ser." 

Loghain laughs, low and ragged and surprisingly kind, here in Crestwood's shadows. "Ah, someone taught you manners, once upon a time. Respectful to a Ferelden. That's a poor imitation of a former Orlesian officer." 

Blackwall snorts an awkward chuckle of his own in response. He used to be quite _good_ at playing the Orlesian officer. It's rather comforting to know he's lost the knack of it. 

Loghain sighs, his smile fades as he shakes his head. "Try harder, if you meet more of "our" brethren. You don't." He pauses, a frown deepening already heavy dark browns. "You don't _move_ right, for an old Warden. It's a subtle thing, a raw recruit would never know, but there's a chance someone experienced might notice, if they have a reason to consider it." 

Blackwall nods, gratitude adding to the weight across his shoulders. "Thank you." 

Loghain snorts again. "In war, victory. No matter the cost. We don't say the second half out loud, though. Frightens the civilians." But he offers his hand, and Blackwall shakes it, and Loghain turns and walks away, back straight and stride firm all the way to Hawke's side. 

Blackwall feels the weight on his shoulders shift. 

It doesn't go away. 

It never will. 

But maybe it will serve a purpose, if he can stand with it. 

Just a little longer. 

He can't afford to fail. 

_Victory._

Of a sorts. 

He won't fail her. 

No matter the cost. 

// 

_In Death, sacrifice._

// 

"NO." He hears his own voice break, feels his own breath break, _his heart, his heart, it has no right,_ but it shreds apart, swift and agonizing. 

She falls. 

After Redcliffe, and Haven, and each bloody step through the Dales, her stride straight and firm even as he watched the stones stab at her soul, as sharp as steel and brittle as bone, pain in history and present and future, all at once and yet she never bowed, never broke ... after _Halamshiral,_ and his Judgement, he did not think he would have to watch her fall _like this._

He was too far away to be her shield, too far, _too far, I'm never too far to fail,_ but he makes up for it by being her sword, and the terror demon that had appeared behind her falls, tough spindly legs and arms cut off its body, shards and splinters of green surrounding him as he follows her to the ground, knees hitting hard against the stony soil. 

_It should have been me._

It is a better end than he deserves, to die protecting her, but still it had given him such hope, that he might be granted it despite his failures. Might die as well as a real Warden, might serve a purpose at last. 

He can't stop the tremble in his fingers, the burn in his throat, his eyes, his chest, can't quite make his voice work again, not even to call for help as he reaches for her shoulder, her throat, as he tries not to feel the shadow of each splash of blood upon her skin as another stab into his chest. 

He fails, blinks against the pain, phantoms worse than any sword or dagger thrust, _I am supposed to protect her, how could I fail,_ until at last his fingers settle, and he feels the beat of her heart, uneven but still strong. 

His breath shakes worse than his hand as it escapes his mouth, his back bends as his free hand braces against the ground beside her, eyes closed as he tries desperately to remember how to keep his heart beating steadily, now that it's trying to piece itself back together. 

He breathes back in, sharp and heavy, and finishes shifting her shoulders enough she settles more smoothly across the ground, chin lifting just enough to allow him to find a potion and start trying to ease it down her throat. 

It spills, dark against her chin, her body still, so still, _why wasn't it me?_

At last he gets some in her mouth, a trickle down her throat, and he hopes it's enough, _please, by all that's holy,_ he's still letting it pour when she wakes, sputtering and spitting and almost choking around the thick liquid in her mouth, eyes wide and searching, fingers curling through the thin pale blades of grass beneath her. 

"Shh," he pulls back to let her breathe, and her chest lifts with a gasp, a cough, and her hand is there, wrapped around his, grip strong enough to bruise, eyes steady now as she stares up into his face. 

She swallows, and coughs again, and her grip eases with the barest nod of her head, and her mouth opens and her eyes close as he helps her finish the potion, slowly, _slowly_ , and he watches the line of her eyelashes above her _vallaslin,_ and the shift down her throat, small and steady, over and over again with every swallow until she is done. 

Her fingers curl tight into his hand again, until he can feel the thin sharp line of nails even through his glove, and he winces, sympathy for the cause, that moment when the last swallow of a potion burns in your throat, when your wounds flare up, as sharp and brutal as the initial cause for a heartbeat or two before the magic settles, and he feels her shudder, and finally her shoulders ease against the cold thin dirt beneath them. 

Her eyes open, the familiar sheen of green shifting and glowing, unearthly and unnatural perhaps, yet comforting in its familiarity. He smiles, and allows himself to touch her cheek, the warmth of her skin soft against his still trembling fingertips. Her eyes widen just a little, and he starts as she leans forward suddenly, scrambling to sit up, and he almost falls as he leans back out of her way, trying to avoid an awkward collision, but then she's kneeling with him, her forehead pressed to his, her hands tangled in his hair as she holds him close. 

"I am sorry to have scared you so, again _._ " 

He can feel a shudder of his own down his back as he sighs, heavy and ragged, and his eyes close as he breathes, as he feels her breath against his skin. _Still here, she's still here, still and still and at least one more breath ..._ "You seem to have quite the talent for it." 

Her breath shifts, a laugh so soft he can't hear it, even as close as they are. "It's not a talent I _tried_ to develop." 

"You have a natural gift." It is only as he speaks again, as he hears his voice steady, that he realizes how rough it had been before, how clear his fear must have been, face and breath and voice and body. 

"I'll make you a promise, then." Her voice is whisper soft, her mouth so close he can almost feel her lips against his ear, her head tilting so her hair falls between them and the rest of the world, keeping this moment private and quiet. "I will always come back to you, if you swear to do the same." 

His nostrils flare as he inhales, as he turns to see her face, the sharp glint of her eyes as she glances sideways to see his expression. 

"Of c-" He begins, and her finger presses to his lips, her eyebrows tight as she frowns. 

"Is that really so easy to say?" 

He recognizes, at last, the mirror of the ache in his chest in the way her spine curves to bring them close together, in the way her fingers curl and her head tilts again, keeping her good ear carefully positioned in front of him. 

The fear she's trying to hide, that someday he'll be the one on the ground. 

"I will always be your shield, my lady." 

She shakes her head, lips barely parting to let out a sharp hiss of breath. "That's not what I meant." Her mouth closes, thin and tight, and he feels something almost like fear shiver down his spine. 

She is very _very_ angry, his lady, though it took him long to see it, and this is the first time she's let so much of it so close to the surface, the first time, despite all the horrors he's committed, that she's aimed it _at him,_ tension in her face and a gleam in her eyes even sharper than the shine from the Anchor. "You promised me a future, _Thom,_ " her mouth twists and he feels it like a twist of a blade between his ribs, his mouth opening as he tries and fails to remember how to breathe. "You _promised._ " 

She pushes herself away from him, just a little, just enough he can feel the air cool between them, can see the barest roll of her shoulders as she steadies, as she glares at him. His lips try to move, but he cannot speak, old aches turned sharp and bright with a hope he managed to say once, but has such trouble holding onto, is so sure he doesn't deserve. He promised _them_ a future, not just her. 

She's not afraid that he'll fall. She's afraid that he'll be the one on the ground, _and he won't let her save him_. She wants to save him, as much as he wants to save her. 

She doesn't want his sacrifice. 

_In death ..._ no. Maybe there's another choice. Something better. _Better even than dying to save her._ "That's a much more difficult request, Erana." 

Her whole face softens, and she leans back in, so close he can feel her lips against his cheek. "It wouldn't be worth it if it was easy, _vhenan._ " 

He nods, and he can feel the slow curve of her smile against his skin, and for once he is glad he is such a failure of a man, never a Warden, never a Knight, just an old soldier who gets to cause that smile. 

He would follow that smile anywhere. 

He _will_ follow that smile anywhere. No more sacrifices. 

He turns, a bump of her nose against his an instant before he kisses her, the warmth of her lips so soft on his, her breath, her heart, steady and even, in time with his. 

_In life, together._


End file.
